This morning, I was given a stark reminder that I am still an alcoholic, and that my mind still operates in the patterns of an alcoholic. It came in the form of a seemingly harmless joke—a knee-jerk response to a message from a good friend on WhatsApp. The words flowed out without thought, a casual remark, but as soon as I sent it, I saw it for what it was: a moment of truth, an unfiltered glimpse into one of my deepest character flaws.
It’s a flaw I hadn’t given much deliberate thought to before, at least not in the way I did this morning. And yet, it has been at the root of so much pain—pain I cause myself, pain I inflict on others, often without realising it in the moment. This flaw isn’t about craving a drink or a drug; it’s not about escaping reality. If anything, it’s about seeking a heightened sense of it. It’s about the chase, the rush, the chemical cocktail of dopamine and adrenaline my brain has always been so eager to soak in. It’s about feeding an insatiable need for stimulation, for a fix.
The words I had sent in response to my friend boiled down to this: “I wonder how long I can get away with winding someone up.”
There it was, plain as day—a window into the way my mind operates. I like to push buttons. I like to see how far I can take things before someone reacts. I like to poke and prod until the beast snaps back at me. It’s a game, an experiment, a form of entertainment, and somewhere within it, I convince myself that it’s a display of wit, intelligence, even charm. But the reality is far less amusing: the people who bear the brunt of this behaviour are often the ones closest to me, the ones who love me the most. And what kind of person does that make me? What kind of person willingly stirs the pot, just to see what boils over?
The brilliance of this morning wasn’t just in seeing the flaw, but in recognising it in real time. It was as obvious as the nose on my face—or more accurately, like being slapped across it. And in that moment, through a simple exchange with a friend, I was given the gift of awareness. That awareness is powerful, because now that I see it for what it is, I have a choice. I can intervene. I can disrupt the cycle. I can be vigilant when my mind starts craving that particular fix and choose not to indulge it.
And I already know what the outcome of that choice will be: less pain, less hurt, fewer wounds inflicted upon those I care about. Instead of unconsciously pulling their strings for my own amusement, I can step back. I can be mindful. I can stop feeding this compulsive need to provoke.
It’s interesting how even after all the deep work I’ve done through the 12 steps with my sponsor, there are still layers left to uncover. The steps have lifted the heaviest burdens, stripped away the glaring defects, and freed me from the chains that once kept me drowning in alcohol. But recovery isn’t a one-time cleanse; it’s an ongoing process, a continuous education. Every day brings new lessons, new revelations, new opportunities to grow.
AA has given me the tools to navigate these moments. It has opened my eyes, my heart, my ears. It has given me a moral compass I never truly had before. It has taught me not just to recognise right from wrong, but to take action when I veer off course.
So today, I make a conscious decision: I won’t feed my mind with this particular fix. When the urge creeps in, when my head dares me to push that button, I will pause. I will think. I will ask my Higher Power for guidance. And in doing so, I will choose love over chaos, understanding over manipulation.
The result? Less turmoil, more peace. Less conflict, more connection. A happier me. A happier us. And that, in the end, is the kind of fix I truly want.
The Hidden Fix
The joke, a stone dropped in still water,
ripples, reveals the muddy bottom.
Not the craving for the bottle,
but the thirst for the stir.
The mind, a monkey chained,
leaps for the bright, the jarring, the sting.
"How long can I pull the string?" it whispers,
a question born of empty halls.
The beloved, the near, the tender,
become the stage for this cruel play.
Wit, a mask for the hungry ghost,
that gnaws at the edges of kindness.
Awareness, a sudden wind,
tears the veil, the illusion shatters.
The nose, unseen, now burns with truth,
a slap that wakes the sleeping eye.
Choice, a path newly revealed,
not to chase the fleeting rush,
but to still the restless hand,
to silence the taunting voice.
The steps, a ladder from the depths,
reveal new heights, new shadows.
Recovery, not a destination,
but the constant turning of the wheel.
The compass, given, not forged,
points to the quiet, the gentle, the still.
Love, not the flash of the spark,
but the steady warmth of the hearth.
Pause, the space between the thought and the deed,
a moment to breathe, to listen, to feel.
Guidance, a whisper in the silence,
"Choose peace, not the storm."
The fix, sought in the chaos,
found in the quiet connection.
A happier me, a happier us,
the true intoxication of being.
